


Whose Justice?

by Judith Proctor (Watervole)



Series: Justice [3]
Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Gauda Prime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-19 05:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watervole/pseuds/Judith%20Proctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake is forced into one of the hardest decisions of his life.  What happens when what you want to do conflicts with your principles?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whose Justice?

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time.
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).
> 
>    
>  **Original Author's Notes:**
> 
> Previously published in 'Gambit 14'.

At the back of the hall, somebody cheered. Blake spun in unbelieving fury, staring at the faces before him, finger tense and trembling on the trigger of his gun.

      There was silence.

      "Get out." The words were clipped, terse. He was on the verge of breaking down and wondered how they could not know it.

      Nobody moved. It was as if they all thought he was referring to someone else. A boy near the back coughed nervously.

      "I said _get out_ , all of you." He gestured violently with his gun in the direction of the exit.

      The circus was over. A couple of people shuffled nervously to their feet. Marlene edged towards him. "Blake, are you all right?"

      "Oh, I'm fine." He'd never known sarcasm could be so bitter. "I've just killed my best friend. I'm sure I'll get over it in a few minutes." _Leave me alone_ , he wanted to scream. I don't want you all staring at me while I cry for him.

      They crowded around him, bodies offering unwanted confort, trying to press reassurances upon him. Would-be helpful voices telling him he'd done the right thing, that he'd executed a guilty man, that it was all over, that he didn't have to worry. Behind Marlene, he could see Josh with the vid-recorder. And when had that seemed like a good idea: to tape the killing, to show the world that not only could the rebellion carry out its own justice, but that Roj Blake still lived in spite of the traitor's efforts?

      Had Avon ever had to sit through a recording of his own action? Blake was sure he would never be able to watch this one. Revenge had turned sour and bitter in his throat. Pragmatism alone kept him from smashing the recorder to the floor. That and the fact that they'd all think him insane. Why? Why was he so certain now that Avon had loved him? What was it Cally had been so fond of saying? Something about trust and betrayal. He couldn't recall the exact words. Could you betray someone if you loved them? Had he loved Avon? In his confusion, he couldn't tell, and suddenly it was desperately important that he know.

      They were ringing Avon's body, vultures round a corpse. Bull-like, Blake barged his way through, thrust his borrowed gun back into Helena's hands, and bent to claim his dead. Unseeing eyes stared upwards; heavy-handed, he closed them. For the second time that day, he took Avon into his arms. Now, finally, they stood back from him, the body he was carrying somehow symbolic of his rights whereas the corpse on the floor had not been. Avon was still warm. His hair was too long, Blake thought abstractedly, and then, I'll never wear that shirt again. Because he would not bury Avon in his prison garment, nor would he place him naked into the ground. And if Avon would have thought him a fool for wasting scarce resources that way, well that was... That was... He turned his back on them all and blinked back tears.

      Somewhere behind him, he could hear Shona, the ever efficient exec, organising a grave-digging party.

      "No." He would not give Avon over to those who had hated him.

      "Blake?"

      "Just meet me by the lower entrace with a spade. I'll do it myself."

      He could visualise her shrug without seeing it. "Very well."

      

      Too bright, the long corridor offered light where he wanted to hide in the darkness of shadows. It would be daylight outside, and that would be wrong too, for dark deeds demanded to be hidden. Had he thought Avon thin before? With every step he took, the body gained weight. Sloping endlessly downwards, the corridor might as well have led into the mythical depths of hell. The realm of the dead - that seemed appropriate somehow. If only Avon weren't so heavy. He'd have to rest soon. "You must touch the life you take," Sinofer had said. But had even that ancient ghost reckoned on him achieving the death of an enemy and of a friend in a single blow? Because that was the crux, wasn't it? Avon was all things to him. There was Avon the pragmatist who could quite easily have done everything he'd been accused of, and there was the other Avon, the one who was harder to see, the one he'd trusted and called friend. Cynic and saviour, all in one package. No wonder the man had dominated his life.

      It was no use, he had to sit down and rest for a moment. He wasn't sure which was harder to bear, the weight of Avon's body, or the endless churning of his own thoughts. Blake leaned against the wall and let himself slide down into a sitting position, Avon sprawled across his lap. And which man did he have here then, the friend or the enemy? Stupid question. You couldn't divide a man into two parts. He was tired; he'd been up most of the night. Would it really matter if he rested for a while? Here in the whiteness of the corridor, it was peaceful. No people. He needed time to be alone, time to think. But if he sat here for more than a minute or two, his muscles would seize up and he was barely half way to the exit. He could always wait for Shona and get her to help. No. That felt wrong. It wasn't that Shona was squeamish or weak, it was simply that Avon was his.

      Blake struggled to his feet once more and resumed his downhill journey. Sometimes, you had to trust instinct. Whatever else Avon had or had not done, he had regretted Roj's death. Of that, Blake was prepared to swear. And that meant he would have regretted Blake's death - had regretted Blake's death. He shifted the weight in his arms, trying in vain to find an easier position; he was going to dislocate a shoulder at this rate. It didn't matter. He needed penance, some way to pay an impossible debt. Each step added to the burden of guilt.

      Did you feel this pain, Avon?

      Did my death hurt you as much as yours has hurt me?

      Did you ever understand how much I relied on you?

      Did you ever understand how much I needed you?

      Did you ever understand how much I cared for you?

      " _Damn you, Avon, why did you lie to them?_ "

      Not much further now. Soon he'd reach the entrace to the caves. Just a little further. But he'd never be able to carry Avon over the stream bed without slipping and falling on the mossy stones.

      Footfalls echoed rapid behind him, the sound reaching Blake long before he could determine who it was. There seemed little point in trying to outdistance the runner, so he sat down again, cradled Avon's head against his chest and waited, fingers smoothing the disordered hair. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that Avon was simply unconscious, could imagine the faintest movement in the chest resting against his own, could believe-

      "Blake."

      He opened his eyes to see Helena crouched beside him, panting to regain her breath. She slipped a loaded rucksack off her back. "I thought you'd need this."

      Perceptive of her. He'd only just realised himself that he needed to go off on his own for a few days. There was too much crowding his mind, he needed time to work it all out.

      "I had to guess at the size of the boots, but I don't think his feet are much different to yours."

      Boots. His mind churned slowly over the words, unable to accept what she was saying. Boots, for Avon. And why should she think Avon needed boots? He looked at the gun in her hoster, one he vaguely recalled borrowing less than half an hour ago. A Flaxman model B - one of the few guns they owned with a variable power discharge. Bile rose in his stomach. He'd never even looked at the power setting. Nausea clutched at him. He'd been through hell for nothing, because Avon wasn't even dead. Blake felt for the pulse he knew he should find, but his hand was shaking too much to detect it. But he knew, knew with instinct that went beyond logic, knew that the man he held was alive.

      "Helena," he rasped, voice catching deep within his throat. "What the hell have you done?"

      "Saved a man's life. That _was_ what you wanted, wasn't it?"

      He buried his face in Avon's hair, not looking at her. "Yes, yes of course." But it wasn't 'of course', because she didn't understand, hadn't thought it through. If Avon was alive, Blake had to go though it all over again, and he couldn't. "But what do we do with him?"

      "Easy." She reminded him vaguely of his mother, all organisation and confidence. "He'll come out of it in ten minutes or so. You dig a fake grave in case anyone checks; he takes the survival gear, and off he goes."

      So simple. So simple and so wrong. She'd destroyed his life, and she didn't yet realise that she'd done it. More footsteps were coming down the corridor and that was simply the final nail in the coffin - Shona.

      "Hello," Helena was saying brightly, "I just came down to give Blake a hand."

      He heard the clatter of a shovel being flung to the ground and looked up to meet Shona's glare. Hands on hips, she faced him down. "You did it, didn't you? The moment you insisted on burying him yourself, I knew you'd damn well faked it."

      Blake spoke to her knees, and the emptiness of the wall in front of him. "I didn't know. I didn't know it was set on stun."

      "Really? And just what do you intend to do with him now?"

      "Let him go," Helena said defiantly. "Avon may have killed a man, but it wasn't planned and I don't think he should die for it."

      "Tell her, Blake." Shona sounded tired.

      The world was hollow and every word echoed around its cavarnous emptiness. Shona's camouflage trousers were an immovable barrier in front of him. He knew the answer Shona wanted, and the devil of it was that she was right. He gnawed fitfully on the knuckle of his thumb, trying to avoid the necessity to answer.

      " _Blake._ "

      He gave in. Shona had the patience to work on him all day with the steady, persistent drip of a Chinese water torture. "It isn't what _you_ think that matters," he said to Helena with resignation. "It isn't what _I_ think either. Shona said it earlier, if one person is allowed to overrule everyone else then we are no better than the Federation."

      "I don't believe I'm hearing you say this!" Helena expostulated. "I thought you were the man who vowed to take on the Federation single handed if necessary; the man who fought and argued until he got what was right; the man who refused to take no for an answer."

      "Maybe I'm the man who just shot his best friend."

      Businesslike, Shona said, "And now you can finish off the job." She drew her gun and held it out to him, butt first. "It'll be kinder if you do it before he wakes up."

      Blake stared at the weapon as though it were a thing unknown to him. Logic was one thing, knowledge was another. He _couldn't_ kill Avon again. Only anger had driven him to the necessary edge the first time. Now the anger had long faded into cold loss and bitterness. To kill Avon again would be to kill a part of himself: the part that lived and breathed, the part that had life and hope, the part that still believed there was something worth fighting for. He held Avon tightly against him, feeling the bone of the ribs under his fingers, sensing the faint beat of the heart.

      "No."

      Shona was unmoved. "You've said it yourself: he still has to die. You accepted the court's decision earlier. If you really intended to kill him before, then you can do it again. Nothing has changed."

      The hell of it was that she was right, nothing had changed, except that _he_ had changed. It wasn't a matter or right or wrong, innocence or guilt, he simply couldn't do it.

      "No."

      "Then I will." The gun slapped back into her hand with practised ease.

      " _No._ That's an order."

      "You gave up the right to give us orders, when you let Avon live."

      Blake pushed Avon to the floor and surged to his feet in a burst of desperate energy, to face Shona. "And suppose it had been you?" he demanded passionately. "Suppose you were innocent of the crime you were accused of? Wouldn't you want me to defend you, or should I give way to people who didn't know you and couldn't possibly understand what motivated you?" He saw the first flicker of uncertainty and pounced. "I've known you almost as long as I've known Avon. Two years now. Do you think I'd abandon a friend?"

      She shook her head, mute.

      "I'm not going to abandon him, Shona. Kill him and you'll have to kill me too."

      He moved forward, forcing himself between Avon and the gun, willing her to back down. Slowly, in brief, jerky flashes of nightmare, the gun returned to rest.

      "Thank you."

      The tension hadn't left her. "I still think you're wrong."

      Avon moaned softly. The sound caught at Blake, pulled him round and down to see this restoration of life. The face below him screwed into a grimace. Eyes blinked open to look around in blank confusion. They focused, found Blake and blinked once more.

      "I didn't think you had it in you," Avon said slowly. "First, I didn't think you'd really do it, and then I thought you really meant it. You'd have been a bigger success as an actor than a revolutionary."

      "Oh, but he _did_ mean it. Or so he claims."

      Blake bled inwardly. Shona had no intention of making things easy for him. Avon glanced up at Shona, then turned to Blake as if comparing them mentally. Blake slid away from Avon's gaze.

      "Come on," he said roughly. "We've got to get you out of here." He slipped an arm under Avon's shoulders and lifted. "Can you stand?"

      Avon lurched unsteadily to his feet and for a moment Blake thought that he was going to vomit. He caught him in a firmer grip, but Avon shrugged himself free.

      "I can manage."

      That was a lie if ever Blake had heard one. Avon was swaying on his feet, obviously having difficulty keeping his balance. Helena ducked past Blake and smiled at Avon with a proprietorial air.

      "Let me help."

      "Why not?" Avon sounded indifferent, but he accepted Helena's support nonetheless.

      That rankled, but then when Avon wanted to irritate, he usually succeeded. Blake resisted the temptation to kick him. It was all too easy to understand how Avon felt. He'd been there himself. Small animals chased each other on an endless treadmill around his brain. What was right? What was wrong? Where the hell did he go from here? How did he keep everyone else from discovering that Avon was still alive? Why hadn't Avon told anyone that Servalan had survived?

      They moved slowly down the corridor: Avon leaning heavily on Helena's petite form; Shona, in her usual manner automatically moving to the point position. Blake brought up the rear with the shovel and Helena's kit bag, feeling unaccountably weary. Avon's gait was unsteady but that was simply the aftereffect of the stun. Helena had brought supplies - Avon would be all right once he got clear of the base. As long as Blake made sure no hunting parties went in his direction for a couple of days, there'd be no real danger. There was so much he had to do here. Why did Avon have to haunt him like this? If the others found out... He was back to that again. If the others found out, the group would fall apart. What of the contacts he'd worked so painstakingly to build up? What of the supporters who supplied them with money and equipment? What of the 'retraining' centre that he was planning to infiltrate and destroy? There were so many things at stake.

      "Shona?" He ventured the question tentatively.

      She intuited his meaning as always. "Will I keep my mouth shut? I don't know. I haven't decided yet."

      Shona never did things by halves. In the final analysis, she'd either kill Avon when they reached the forest or else help cover his escape. She wasn't the type to do things behind your back, which was probably why she'd resented Avon's survival so much. Shona still thought he'd acted without consulting her. It would have been funny if it wasn't giving him such a headache.

      "Shona," he pleaded, "I didn't even look at the gun. I honestly meant to-"

      "Kill me." Avon's voice, pitch black and furious. "Don't let me get in the way, if my survival is inconveniencing you. What's the matter? Haven't you got the guts to finish the job?"

      "Listen, Avon!" Blake strode forward angrily and gripped him by the shoulder. "I am risking my base, my future and possibly my neck to get you out of here."

      "How noble of you. What caused the sudden change of heart?"

      He stared into Avon's face, trying to find the friend that he had known, to see what he had seen there only a few hours ago. Strain had etched deep lines into the pale face. Blake was conscious of how ruddy and robust he was by comparison. The clothes that were a comfortable fit on himself hung loose and baggy on Avon. The green trousers only stayed up with the aid of a belt and the shirt looked as though two people would have fitted in it. Avon glared at him, but Blake could see past the façade. There was pain there, too much pain for either of them to handle right now. They would never have the chance to sort that out now, he had to accept that; but there was one thing he had to know before he and Avon parted company.

      "Servalan," he demanded roughly, gripping hard with his hand. "Why didn't you tell anyone she was still alive?"

      "My reasons are none of your business."

      "You left her free to carry on under another name, free to try and rebuild her empire. You _owe_ me an explanation."

      "Why did you never kill Travis," Avon countered.

      "That's nothing to do with it!"

      Avon looked at him without blinking. "If you say so."

      Blake sighed in resignation. "It wasn't Travis I was fighting, it was the Federation. As soon as you start having personal vendettas, you become as bad as the system you're trying to destroy."

      Avon flung back his head and laughed: a long slow laugh that grew wilder and wilder, tottering on the brink of insanity. Blake slapped him, the sound sharp and sudden. Avon's attention snapped back to Blake, the feral animal still lurking in the corner of his eyes. "I lack your standards of perfection, Blake. I never fight _unless_ it is personal."

      There was a warped kind of logic there for Blake to follow. He and Avon were so different that it was amazing they'd ever understood one another at all, but that was Avon for you. His loyalties were to individuals rather than organisations and so were his hatreds.

      "You wanted to kill her yourself?"

      Avon's hands tensed momentarily into claws. "Yes."

      Blake nodded in reluctant understanding. If Avon had said that in the hall above, they'd never have believed him. He could see Shona out of the corner of his eye; she certainly didn't look convinced. You had to know Avon, had to have worked alongside him, had to have experienced his complexities at first hand, to know what motivated him.

      "If you've quite finished reminiscing," Shona demanded, hands on hips, "we need to be moving."

      Blake waved her forward and the small procession shuffled onwards in silence. Blake's thoughts drifted back to the last time he'd seen Avon on _Liberator's_ flight deck, at Star One - the scene of another of their famous arguments. But he'd trusted Avon to hold the gap in the defence zone, and he had. Personal loyalties again. Avon's protective instincts for people he'd never met were close to non-existent; Blake had argued, pleaded, used every trick he could think of to persuade Avon to risk almost certain death facing the Andromedans. He'd succeeded, and he was under no illusions as to why. In the final analysis, Avon had done it because Blake had asked him to. Even with their relationship strained almost to breaking point by the events leading up to Star One, there had still been that degree of faith between them. Now it was gone.

      Monotonously straight and smooth, the tunnel carried on relentlessly down, white walled and barren, offering no solace and no dreams. Blake shifted the shovel onto his other shoulder for about the tenth time and sighed with relief as he spotted the doorway ahead. Shona moved swiftly ahead, opened the door fractionally, carried out a quick check, then slipped though, gun in hand.

      A couple of minutes later, she returned and nodded an all clear. The late afternoon sun filtered into the back of the caves and shone into their eyes as they made their way forwards along the stream, Helena solicitously assisting Avon on the uneven floor.

      Blake blinked as he came out into the open; it was easy to forget how bright it was outside when you lived by artificial lighting underground. Sunlight streamed into the clearing, casting long contrasting shadows of grasping branches onto the ground. The wildwood pressed close and the city dweller in him withdrew. He dumped the kit bag on the ground and rested his weight on the shovel. Helena bustled forward, all eagerness and assistance.

      "Over there looks like a good place." She gestured to a small hollow in the ground about fifteen metres away.

      It looked as good as anywhere else. Avon followed him as he made his way over, and sat pointedly on the edge of the dip. "Made your mind up yet?"

      "Yes. Get out of here before I change it."

      "And her?" Avon nodded towards Shona who stood on watch at the edge of the clearing, blending in with the scenery in a way that Blake knew he never did. Roj had always seemed closer to nature, maybe that was the influence of the clonemasters.

      "She'll do what I say." Blake wished he was as confident as he sounded.

      Avon didn't move. He stared at some point slightly behind Blake's head. "I want a gun."

      Blake tensed in instant denial, knew Avon had seen it, and cursed himself for a fool. The request was a logical one. Give Avon a food processor to rewire and he'd be at home; expect him to feed himself off the land and he'd fare even worse than Blake. Helena's supplies wouldn't last forever; Avon would need to be able to shoot game.

      "Afraid?" Avon's voice mocked him.

      Yes, he was afraid. Avon in this fey mood was capable of doing anything. There was only one way to deal with Avon when he was like this, there had only ever been one way. And if the risks were greater this time? Well, perhaps he had a debt to pay.

      Sweat trickled down his back as he motioned Shona over. This was the time of reckoning, for all of them.

      "Give him your gun." Not Helena's weapon with its variable power setting and false promises but Shona's, a Kraft 37, lovingly cared for and accurate up to a kilometer.

      "No." She stood, legs slightly apart, gun held casually but ready for instant use.

      Blake resisted the temptation to talk to the far horizon and looked her directly in the eye. "If I send him out there without a weapon, it's tantamount to murder. If we don't give him what he needs to survive, then we might as well kill him now."

      "And what if he kills you."

      "He won't."

      "You're a fool, Blake," she said.

      Avon got unsteadily to his feet, nodded his head to Shona, then addressed Blake. "I see I've become redundant." He picked up the kit bag and slung it on his shoulders. "I wish you more joy of her than you ever had of me." The words were smooth, careless and accompanied by a smile that grated on Blake's nerves with every millimeter of its deliberately polished charm. Avon started across the clearing, back straight, step brisk, and then ruined the effect as he stumbled slightly with the weight on his bad knee.

      "Avon!"

      He didn't even turn his head. "I'll see you in Hell."

      "Will he be all right?" Helena's voice spoke worriedly from just behind Blake.

      Blake didn't look at her, his eyes fixed on Avon's retreating backside. "No," he answered. "He'll die. A combination of his pride, your presumption and my stupidity."

      "Shouldn't someone..."

      Shona's eyes flicked over her with contempt. "You perhaps?"

      Blake could read the fear in Helena's eyes: fear of the forest, fear of Avon, fear of the unknown. Giving Blake her gun had been an easy step: it gave her the cosy feeling of virtue while demanding nothing in return. Helena was a well-meaning woman but she wouldn't leave home, friends and safety to venture into the wilderness with a madman. He wasn't surprised when she plucked up the courage to accept Shona's condemnation and said, "I'm needed here."

      Shona was looking at him now, eyebrow raised in query. Blake ignored her, turning his attention to gravedigging instead. If Avon was to stand a chance, he needed to ensure that there was no pursuit and to do that, he had to make the death look convincing. The ground was rocky and hard to dig, but underneath the thin soil, the stones were at least weathered. It was easier to pull them out by hand than to use the shovel. He gripped another rock and tugged, wishing for a crowbar, all the while feeling Shona's eyes on his back. "I can't," he said in response to a question she hadn't asked. "You know I can't." There was so much to do here. He had responsibilities; if he left, everything would fall apart.

      "I could go after him and give him my gun," Helena offered.

      Blake didn't reply. He struggled with another rock, trying to answer questions. Would a gun really make any difference? Did Avon know anything about wilderness survival? Just how bad was that knee injury anyway? The rock he was lifting slipped in his hand and crashed down, scraping trails through the mossy undergrowth. Blake swore under his breath.

      "You know it's impossible," he demanded angrily of Shona.

      "If you say so." Her voice was cool, even.

      "Why the Hell should I go after him?"

      "Because you want to."

      "Oh really?" But it was no use. He didn't want to go, couldn't afford to go, but he had no choice in the matter. None at all. He picked up a small rock and taking her hand, slammed the stone into it. "Finish this off for me," he demanded. "Tell them I've gone walkabout - I need time to think. Tell them anything, except the truth."

      "Will you be coming back?"

      Shadows reached out to ensnare him as the forest stood in its ancient strength. An even older enemy than the Federation, man had fought against the wilderness from time immemorial. Blake sought the future in the darkness between the trees and failed to find any answer.

      "No." They would know eventually that he'd betrayed them - he couldn't come back here. He felt an irrational surge of anger against Avon. Why couldn't the man have stayed decently dead? No one should be forced to have to weigh his dreams against the life of a friend. Or was it simply guilt that drove him? Blake and guilt were old acquaintances, they'd had many a tussle together in the depths of the night. What mattered to him most, saving Avon's life, or easing his conscience from the burden of nearly having killed him? He wasn't sure that he wanted to know the answer, wasn't sure that he'd like himself if he did. Perhaps the excuse Shona and Helena would make for him wasn't so far from the truth. He needed to think, needed to come to terms with himself again, even as he had after Gan's death. There was too much grief and anger for him to cope with right now.

      Without pausing for farewells, Blake strode across the clearing, heading in the direction where Avon had already gone. Shona followed, a bare step behind him.

      He stopped.

      She stopped.

      "Why?" he demanded.

      "Because you won't abandon a friend."

      And as simply as that, part of the knot inside him untwisted. As long as someone else believed in him, Blake could believe in himself.

      "Besides," she carried on briskly, "you know nothing about forest survival, you'd probably poison yourself in a week, you forgot to take a weapon and Avon is a major security risk if captured as he knows the location of the base."

      Blake rested a hand momentarily on her shoulder. "You're very like him, do you know that?"

      As they left Helena standing by the gravesite and plunged into the trees, Shona looked at him in horror. "I sincerely hope not!"

 


End file.
